The Olchast Chronicles
by Rase Kefla
Summary: Details the continued reign of King Delita Hyral, and the attack of the Pana'daean Empire. Notes concerning the significant impact of the Heretic, Ramza Beoulve, as well as the changing political climate within Ivalice.


Tactics Fanfiction

The rain pounded against the drenched backs of labouring sailors, fighting to wrestle control of their ship from the wrath of the storm. Dark clouds and fell winds had already caused chaos among the mighty seacraft, causing decks to be slick, helmsmen fighting to keep their ships from blundering into others, and all the while, deckhands fought to stay aboard.

Grand Commodore Miya Ra'Droma stood at the prow of the _Golden Bird, _hands on her hips, peering out at the far horizon, where the first glimmers of hope were beginning to appear. She was drenched, dripping from head to toe, hair whipping in the wind, clothes flapping wetly. She had been standing there at the prow for the better part of the storm, searching anxiously for land.

"Do not lose heart." She said quietly. She wanted to shout it to her crew, but knew the winds would whisk her voice off across the seas. The land was in sight. The journey was over. The conquest was just beginning.

"Ajora. We are coming."

"I know who you are." The words were delivered in a whisper that seemed to echo across the empty courtyard. The rain gently fell, a mist that made the stones shine and the grass glow. "What I want to know is, why are you here?"

"He was my friend." The two hooded figures were still wet from the pouring rain that had fallen over Igros Castle earlier that morning.

"Algus cost you everything, and yet you risk yourself, heretic, by visiting his grave." His voice was carefully controlled, but a trace of bitterness echoed in it.

"No man is beyond salvation." Those words were tinged with a sort of sadness, the sound of a man constantly forced to contend with human weakness. As he said them, the man pulled his hood closer around his face, eyebrows furrowing against the wet and cold.

"Those words mean little when coming from a heretic who abandoned his family." The words rang in the empty courtyard, the graves sitting as silent sentinels in the grass.

"You are not from Lionel." The heretic's words were spoken simply, but there was no hint of question in them, simply a statement of fact. Still, as he said them, his form tensed, readied to fight, or to flee.

"I am in need of the services of a man; heretic or not, you are all I have." At this, the heretic turned from the grave to look at his requestor, pulling his hood off his face. The blonde hair still held its colour, and his cheeks spoke of noble blood. But it was not because of this, that the hooded speaker paused. It was his eyes. In them, there was fatigue. They seemed incredibly . . . old.

"If I died eight years ago, it was so that I wouldn't have to fight anyone any longer." The age was echoed in his tired voice, as the heretic tried to pierce the darkness of the other's hood.

"I am afraid I can leave you little choice. You failed to die, and now, you must fight. I need you to help Ivalice. That is the truth-"

"Truth!" in that word, the man changed completely. His eyes glowed in fervour, a blazing passion, as the swiftly spoken word rang throughout the courtyard; and for a moment, he was the fearless man of legend again, the one who had faced down every foe, every challenge with dauntless courage and heroic tenacity. The one said to have died eight years before. The man who could save Ivalice.

"That is not the 'truth'!" The hero continued, "Do not assume to know the 'truth'." The words came, as though by rote. "Too many have died because of that assumption!" he turned away suddenly, seeming old and frail once more.

"Truth is real." The hooded man insisted, taking a half step forward.

"Your 'truth' is only what the Church wants you to believe." The hero said, turning his back.

"I do not serve the Church." Those words were spoken defiantly, a declaration of independence. "I have my own reasons for finding you."

"I do not care to hear them." He said, taking a step away.

"They… have Teta." At this, the heretic stopped. He turned, slowly, and in one smooth motion, stepped forward, sweeping off the speaker's hood. A long moment followed, each man staring into the eyes of the other.

"Delita." Although there was no crown, there was no mistaking the face of the king of Ivalice, the Commoner who became King.

"Ramza." Both words were spoken without emotion; each person simply caught up in the others' impossible presence.

"Ramza." Delita said again, this time, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining his composure. "I need your help. Meet me in one week, in Gariland: Bring as many 'friends' as you can gather." He turned to leave, but Ramza placed a hand on his shoulder.

"What did you mean about Teta?" Ramza said, reaching out a hand.

"In Gariland." And with that, he strode off, out of sight.

Gariland Magic City was a city of highs and lows. The city was sprawled across sweeping hills and sudden level plateaus, and houses dotted sporadically, or jammed together upon the scarce solid ground. In the same way, the city was prone to times of great wealth and destitute poverty. Small rivers crept through the city, covered by bridges of stone and wood, all in various states of repair. It was home to the prestigious Gariland Magic Academy, and through this, had earned the name 'Magic City'.

Gariland Academy also housed a school for young cadets to learn soldiery. It had swiftly become famed across the land for being the first to mention Delita's name, the place where he first was trained in the way of the sword, and, as others sought to follow in his path, had expanded into the largest structure in the city. Gariland was sweeping into a flourishing city, but amongst the chaos, there were always the desolate poor areas. In a stretch of slums known as Old Gariland, a small church lay, crumbling where it sat, forgotten.

It was here that Ramza headed. The church had once been a part of their lives. Delita had come here often as a cadet, when his common blood had found him ostracized. Ramza recalled the many conversations they had here, with nothing but the stone and grass and rotting wooden doors, and the musty air for company.

His lips were moving swiftly, fervently, his hands clasped intently, as though to force his prayers to be heard. The door at the back of the room opened, allowing a splash of sunlight to glitter against the disturbed dust floating in the air.

The dust danced frantically until the door closed again, after admitting only one. He walked forward, bowed his head beside the other man, and waited until he had finished.

"Ramza." Delita pushed back his hood, and looked at Ramza earnestly. "I wasn't sure you would come." Ramza stared at his childhood friend, seeing haunted eyes that knew little peaceful sleep. He could say nothing. He saw a man more broken and alone, utterly overwhelmed by the world. Hardly similar to the friend he had cherished so many years ago.

"Ramza, do you remember when we were here? Before all of this?" Delita smiled, some glimmer of life returning to shadowed eyes. "We had friends, back then. Well, you did. Nobody wanted to be seen with a commoner like me." He paused, and then laughed. Ramza had never heard a sound more heartbreaking.

"Delita…" He said quietly. "What happened to you?"

CHAPTER 1: THE FALLEN

"I had done it, Ramza. I became King. Nobody could call me a commoner, so no one could judge me anymore, like what Teta wanted. But after Algus . . ." Delita scuffed his boot against the ground, and Ramza heard Delita's teeth clamp shut, a sign of frustration.

_It was strange, the way he chose to say Algus, a friend who perhaps understood the nature of a soldier better then either of them. Under the orders of Zalbag, my now twice-deceased brother, Algus had fired a crossbow bolt willingly into a hostage, and then into Gustav, a member of the Death Corps. _

_That hostage had been Delita's only sister and surviving relative, Teta._

_Afterwards, Delita had killed Algus, cutting him down with a single blow. But before we could find Teta, Gustav had detonated the gunpowder inside the Death Corps base. As the fire rushed into the sky, I gave up on ever being a knight, and fled, leaving everyone behind…_

"I never found her body. Did you know that? She protected me. But, I blacked out, and then she was gone. What could I do? I had to… I had to…"

"Delita. Teta is dead." Ramza said, with a little more heat than he had intended. The words echoed in the empty church, sending a bird fluttering, disturbed from its nest.

"Ramza… I know. I was the one she protected with her life! Oh God, I know she is gone." His fist clenched, the leather of his gloves squeaking slightly. "But I can't just sit here and think that somehow, maybe, she could be alive, can I?"

"Delita, this isn't what she would've wanted. She would want you to be fair to commoners and nobles and-"

Ramza skidded across the stone floor, his face already swelling from the blow from Delita's fist, a small line of blood trickling down his cheek. He threw out his hands to catch himself, ready for the follow-up that never came.

"Dammit Ramza!" He shouted, his voice echoing through the eerie silence. "I know what she wanted! But I can't stop thinking that it _might_ be true!" Ramza paused, forcing his hand to push the sword back down into the sheath. Delita looked at the bared steel with a small smile.

"Some habits die hard, eh Ramza? I have to protect my sister, no matter what the cost!"

"This is madness, Delita!"

"Everything I've done," Delita said, as though he had not heard, "Every path I chose. When I fought, who I fought, who I used to get there… All of this was for her!"

"What does this have to do with me?" Ramza asked after a moment.

"I am going to find the 'truth', Ramza. I've found out a way to know for certain."

"What are you talking about?" Ramza nearly shouted, "She's dead!" Delita ignored his words.

"There is a nation across the sea, setting sail to attack Ivalice. They have a magic there, that can find any living person. They've been using it to find . . . someone. I don't know who."

"They're attacking Ivalice?" Ramza said, eyes narrowing. "Why? How?"

"Sailing across the sea. This is why I need you. You must lead Ivalice against the invaders, while I go to find Teta."

"They will never follow me, Delita." Ramza shook his head. "The Church holds too much sway over the minds of the people. Even your support won't change that." Delita growled under his breath, then saw Ramza's thoughtful expression.

"You have a plan." he said.

"You lead Ivalice. I will go rescue Teta."

"You… would do that for me?" Delita said, disbelief evident in his voice. Ramza nodded, his voice quiet.

"You were my friend, and so was Teta. I may not find anything, but one way or the other, I will put your mind to rest."

"Then you will need this." Delita reached deep into his cloak, and pulled out a piece of oiled cloth.

"I'm not precisely sure, but this should lead you to their island. To Teta."

Ramza blinked.

"A-across the ocean?" Delita grinned, although it never changed the cold, withdrawn look in his eyes.

"You will sail the ocean. I have a ship and captain who will take you, once I let him know. Once you arrive, though, you will be on your own. Room for twelve." He said, as Ramza opened his mouth, and promptly shut it again.

"Ramza, go knowing that if you bring me news of Teta, fair or foul, no church will stop me from declaring you my friend." Ramza nodded, and took Delita's proffered hand.

"I will return." And, with that, he pulled Delita into an embrace. "I am glad that you are still able to trust."

Delita said nothing, and they pulled away. Ramza left without another word, his boot steps echoing in the empty hall.

Ramza headed straight to the inn, where he met with his colleagues.

It was a dark place, where hoods indoors were commonplace, and faces worth hiding more so. It was the sort of place that could afford a heretic as a patron. Most occupants were large, and glared with deep mistrust at anyone who wandered near, clutching at their mugs. The low ceiling kept heads down, and conversation was hushed.

Upon reaching his table, Ramza shook his head. Where every other patron was hunched over their respective drinks, his table had some sitting like they were eating at the royal palace. Granted, they had grown up in a setting that merited the posture, but the group looked conspicuous enough already.

Ramza sat quickly, and took a moment surveying the trio looking eagerly back at him. Agrias Oaks was sitting stiffly, all but daring anyone to start something, her sword everpresent, but too clean and costly for this crowd. Ramza smiled slightly, and then nodded. Alma Beoulve was beside Agrias, his sister and closest confidant. Somewhere within that small frame and delicate bearing lay a soul of infinite compassion and friendship, something Ramza worked endlessly to protect. It was hard to find kindness in anyone these days, and he always relied on his sister for that. However, her dress was clean, and well kept, which stuck out like a sore thumb in this place filled with toughs and streetwise cutthroats.

Aside from the two of them, only Malak looked comfortably ill-at-ease, which was normal for a tavern of this quality. He was also the only one to have touched his drink. Malak had touched a lot of drink since his sister had gotten ill. She was under the care of the mages of Gariland, but Malak was clearly overwrought. Ramza relayed the story of what had occurred between Delita and himself.

"Do you think he's lying?" Agrias asked, her eyes on her drink.

"I think he is." Malak said, his eyebrows coming together. "He's playing you, while killing off the twelve most potent dangers to his throne." He downed his drink, and signalled for another. There was a darkness about Malak these days, something that seemed like a shroud over him that covered others who got too close.

"I think he isn't." Alma said earnestly. Her face, unlike his, was one of constant, anxious optimism. She had an aura of hope around her that was impossible to fully suppress. "I remember how close Delita was to his sister. He would do, did do, anything for her. I think that what he is telling is the truth. At least, the truth as he knows it." She added, with a glance at her brother.

_Alma Beoulve. My little sister. She too, was taken, kidnapped, like Teta. But unlike Teta, I was able to save her. There was nothing I would not have done to bring her back…_

"But not necessarily the truth." Agrias added, tapping the rim of her mug thoughtfully. "But that isn't the real issue, is it?" Ramza nodded.

"I'm going, regardless." He said after a pause. "I promised him. And I want to avenge Teta."

"He's… really hurting, isn't he?" Alma asked quietly, staring down at her hands.

Ramza sighed, taking a long slow pull from Alma's untouched mug. The bitter taste burned his throat, and he waited a long moment before answering. "Yes, I think he is. I'm leaving in three days." He added abruptly. "I'm not taking twelve. Only myself."

"No!" the rest said in unison.

"You can't be serious!" Agrias began.

"That's suicide." Malak added.

"You'll fail." Alma finished gravely.

"I…" Ramza began, and then lowered his eyes to the tabletop. "I can't ask anyone to go with me." A silence followed, each waiting for the other to deny him. "Nor can I take someone to their death." Ramza continued. "Look. Malak, you have to take care of your sister." At the mention of Rafa, Malak's grip tightened on his empty mug.

"Agrias, Mustadio needs you more than I do." At that, she sighed in exasperation, but remained silent, her version of consent.

"Alma." Her eyes flashed dangerously, but Ramza forced the words out. "You… can't come."

"What kind of a reason is that?" she exploded. She was on her feet, blushing furiously, while the whole room went silent. She opened her mouth to say more, and then noticed all the eyes on her, half with weapons at the ready. She sank back down with a muttered prayer, and nearly missed her stool.

"What gives you the right-" She began again in a hushed voice. Ramza shook his head.

"Alma. I just can't." Ramza shook his head again, but couldn't meet her eye. Surprisingly enough, Agrias rested a hand on Alma's arm.

"He has his reasons, Alma." She was looking at Ramza when she said that, however.

"I'm gathering my things from the Fort. I'll have to say goodbye there, because I'll be leaving straight away." He rose to leave, but Alma grabbed his arm.

"Why, Ramza? Why won't you tell me?" Ramza hesitated, and then pulled away.

"I'll tell you when I return."

The Thieves' Fort was a place of many memories for Ramza. He could sit for days, staring into the water, watching the wretched buildings slowly rot away around him. It was here that all his spoils and keepsakes were held. The atmosphere kept him from thinking the days gone by were anything but evil. It was here that Algus had first shown his true colours, a failed noble, a bully of the weak, and a knight in all his twisted glory: Ruthless and ready to obey orders. Ramza remembered him, remembered when he had admired Algus for his determination and ability. It was also here when Ramza had learned that such people existed.

_I first met Miluda here. A member of the Death Corps, she knew the world of corruption and failure. She also knew that the Death Corps would never succeed, yet she joined in spite of that. She was the first one to show me that fighting evil meant a battle that you might never win…_

Ramza dug through some rotten earth, pulled up some burnished armour, shining despite inhospitable conditions. It was strong, durable, would make him capable of fending off all but the most determined attacker… and yet, would it be enough? Would it slow him that one step? He threw it down, and moved along, revealing weapons and armour amassed through long bloody trials.

A handgun, with its range, he could conquer from afar, without risking himself or his cause… But if caught indoors, he would be at a disadvantage. There were so many choices, each with life-altering consequences, and he knew there was only one correct choice.

It was little more than luck that saved him. While considering a katana, the reflection in the blade had shown a whisper of movement. He instantly dropped into an Asura, a defensive sword form of the Samurai. He turned to block a high blow, and stepped around a second, more desperate attempt.

He backed off a step, and got a clear view of his opponent: Bulky, His shoulders were nearly twice as wide as Ramza's, but his weapon was poor quality: Ramza had felt it weaken under the first impact. He spun away at that moment, dodging a blow from a second opponent. This one was the same size, if not larger, but gripped a lance awkwardly. The lance Ramza recognized as one of his own. Thieves then.

He stepped back again, outstripping the flank attempt, and sank into a ready stance.

The thieves advanced, and Ramza charged the first. Ramza almost smiled as his foe swung first, which he dodged easily, and brought the katana up in a killing blow. The thief moved faster than Ramza had calculated, and brought his blade around in a desperate defence.

The katana sliced cleanly through the rusted metal, and felt even less resistance as it carved a line of tears through flesh. The attack from the second thief came swiftly, hoping to catch Ramza off balance, but he stepped smoothly around the attempt, letting the lance point, bringing a two-handed stroke towards his foe. The slice was clean, cleaner than the first, and Ramza gazed into the wavy pattern in the blade, untouched by blood, as his enemy sank to his knees, all life gushing forth in vital flow. As he turned, he saw the mana in their bodies already beginning to coalesce: Both men were- had been- weak-willed and near death. Soon, all that would be left is a small circle of blood, and soon after that, nothing.

Ramza blinked, seeing the starved, desperate faces of the thieves. Those men were nowhere near his match. He could have offered them a chance of surrender, to go and live in peace. They would most likely have refused, but that changed nothing. Would anyone even grieve their passing?

"_Surrender or die in obscurity!" He shouted, as the thieves advanced upon him. He had offered them a chance to live in peace, after suffering for their crimes. It had been a long time before he had realized that these men considered themselves not criminals, but victims…_

Had he changed that much that he no longer thought of saving life? Where had that passion gone?

Wordlessly, he continued his search, busying his hands, but his mind kept asking questions to which he had no answer.

The wind howled fitfully, sudden bursts of air that would sweep a man from the deck were he caught unaware. Grand Commodore Miya Ra'Droma felt the wind blow, but she swayed against it, her footing sure, her face holding a full grin. The _Golden Bird _had lost men, as had every other craft, but the inlet was close. The sails had been reduced, as they drifted into shallower waters. She could barely contain her excitement.

The invasion was beginning. Ajora would be reclaimed, and the world would be put to balance again.

Her ship would be the first to touch down upon the cursed shores of Ivalice, and would take the first steps in the recrafting of the world.

She felt the ship begin to list to the starboard, turned to her crew to demand an explanation… And saw the deck awash in flames. She turned back to the shore, and saw casters, magic-users, sending torrents of fire and ice ripping through the decks of the forefleet. Her ship was sinking now, rolling over as the water unbalanced her. Whispering a prayer to Ajora, she dove into the waters, feeling the after-currents as a new wave of sheer energy poured down upon the _Golden Bird_, detonating her into little more than a memory. She dove under the water, and watched as pieces of her once proud craft plunged into the water around her, some decorated with the bodies of her crew. She broke the surface again, and looked towards the shore. Even amidst the fury and chaos, her eyes locked on a figure standing alone on the beach.

There stood a man with eyes as cold as the ices of hell. Dressed in golden armour, he was observing- no, directing the fight with cold authority. Her first thought was a general, but then she spotted the golden crown. King then. She struck out for the shore, a new goal in mind. Whispering a prayer to Ajora, she vowed that she would bloody her sword with the life of their king.

The dawn broke clear and warm. Wrecked ships dotted the coast, survivors still drifted in from the carnage that had been the previous day. The inlet had been taken. There had never been any doubt. But over half the forefleet was destroyed, nearly every craft damaged to some extent. The worst of it was that they had done infuriatingly little to bloody their opponents. The enemy had, for the most part, just withdrawn, before any organized attack could be formed. Worst of all, the Grand Commodore had gone missing, and all attempts to find her pointed to her capture or death. Chaos ruled the day, but it was this moment that the Ajora Wars had begun.

The same morning rose on the Fort. Ramza had had an excellent view of the fighting from where the Fort overlooked the inlet. The sheer cliff face had been a method to trap the thieves who once lived here. Now, it simply allowed him to observe the conflict from afar.

He watched the ships get destroyed, one after the other, while they mounted pitiful offences of their own. At one point, he thought the day had turned when the ships fanned out, but when that happened, there came no response. Delita had taken his troops and withdrawn completely. Ramza nodded in approval at this. He could see the endless line of ships still coming in.

Ramza surveyed his equipment selection once more, and cursed himself. He would have had trouble deciding, when he was younger. His indecision had cost lives. So, he had decided, taking a plain but masterfully made sword, and plain clothing, for travel. He had not slept that night; instead he had spent a night in reflection. He was traveling back to Gariland today, taking that ship a day early.

He knew why he was, although he carefully avoided admitting it to himself. He hefted his pack, and was glad of Boco, his trusty mount. He said a prayer for the building that had housed him for eight years, and chuckled to himself. Armour and weapons lay scattered across the field, shining brilliantly in the morning sun. His chuckle grew into a laugh that sent birds from their roosts in a panic.

"Perhaps they'll write a legend." He turned, and nearly stumbled back as he stared at the figure of Delita, shining in his golden armour. The King gestured for Ramza to walk with him, and for a long while they strode through the marshy forest in silence, the only noise their footfalls and the occasional wark from Boco.

"I haven't heard you laugh like that in a long time." Delita said, at length. Ramza nodded, saying nothing, and they continued to walk.

"Being King is difficult." He said at last. "Every choice you make, someone suffers. You don't have room for regret. Consider yourself lucky, Ramza, to still feel human things."

"Delita..?" Ramza began, hesitating. "Do you… regret anything you've done?" A long silence followed. Delita's gloves were clenched tight, and his silence was long before answering.

"I can't say." He said at last. "But now, now that I have hope again… I think I will, but not now. Not when there is still work to be done." Delita stopped, and Ramza turned to face him.

"Ramza I…" Delita began, his mouth half forming words, and then shook himself. "I should be getting back to my men. Return soon." He clapped Ramza on the shoulder, turned, and strode off through the woods. Ramza gazed after him for a long while after he disappeared, until Boco finally said, "Wark!" and began to walk on without him. Ramza shook his head, and then followed, still puzzled.

Miya listened carefully to what the king and man had said to each other. She had followed him doggedly despite a wound in her leg that burned furiously. She knew that her opportunity was passing her by, that she should attack, but something constrained her. She watched the king, Delita, speak to this Ramza, but their conversation didn't make any sense. The king passed her, unseeing, which would have been difficult even if he had been looking for her. She was skilled in the woodcrafts, despite being a sailor. Stealthily, she drew her sword, a long blade that hooked around her hand, and down- a cruel weapon, deadly in her hands. She approached him, her footfalls not making any sound, until she was only three steps behind him. Then she charged, silent still. Her first blow would have split his crown in two, along with his skull, but it instead deflected off a sword, and down to the side. Miya cursed, and blocked a sudden salvo of blows from the king. He was fast and strong, and a master of his blade. Only her steady, swift feet kept her from being overwhelmed. She spun in; beating his sword, but her wrist was caught in his other hand.

"Who are you?" He asked, before bringing his armoured elbow into her chin. Her head snapped back, and she half fell backwards. He kept his grip on her wrist, and with a small twist, forced her weapon from her grip. She blinked the stars from her eyes, and looked up into his face, seeing his eyes blaze down at her. His sword was raised, but he did not strike.

"Well? Give me your name?" She spat blood, and spoke, trying to be courageous in the face of death.

"I am Miya Al'Droma, Grand Commodore of the Forefleet of Ajora, sent to reclaim our reborn saviour!" Delita blinked, his grip loosening slightly, and Miya seized her chance. She kicked out, striking his sword arm, and in the same motion, rolled onto her other foot and drew her knife.

All he could do was watch as she knocked the sword out of her path, and rose, victory written on her face. Which changed to a grimace of pain as her leg gave out from under her, dropping her knife from his eye to his breastplate. It made a slight chink sound as it bounced off it, and from her hand, as she collapsed. Her last waking thought was his strong arms catching her before her head hit his golden chest.

Miya woke, much to her surprise, at all. Her head was pounding from loss of blood. She was moving, but her eyes would not focus. Cold. It was cold out, the night air brisk against her bare legs. Bare legs! That thought made her head begin to work clearer. Her legs were not bare, but the cloth had been cut from her knees down, as a bandage for her leg wound. Her broad trousers did little to stop the wind blowing up the legs, which was the cause of her misconception. She tried to move her fingers, found them numb but responsive. She cautiously opened an eye; found that she was staring at the night sky. The stars winked back at her, coming in and out of focus. She closed her eye, and then opened it again a moment later. She turned her head, and felt cold metal against her cheek.

"Try not to move." a voice said from beside her. She rolled her head to the other side, felt metal against her opposite cheek.

"Did I stutter? Don't move." the voice came again, this time from the other side. She tried to turn, found herself strapped down at the waist. Just then, she realized her situation, and remembrance hit her like a brick to the side of the head: She blacked out.

"Does he do this… every night?" Agrias asked, shaking her head, and turning from the window. The room was small, and clean. It was on the second floor of a private lodge, a quiet place that had a reputation for impossible cases.

"Yes." Rafa replied, from her bed. The woollen sheets enfolded her small frame, which had decreased in size since she had contracted the fell disease—whatever it was.

None in Gariland had ever seen the like. Spidering out along her veins, black lines that traced her body. It was devastating to see the normally pretty, fair-skinned woman traced with such wretched disease. Agrias had taken to looking anywhere but at her, to avoid flinching involuntarily.

"When he thinks I am asleep, he goes out there, and tries to fight it… I feel so bad for him. He can't do anything to help me, and he wants to… more than anything in the world, he just wants to help."

Agrias turned back to the window, and watched Malak in the courtyard, throwing punches at shadows, each strike ending with a spell. The mana in his spells coursed along his body, and propelled out of each strike. It was a strange new style that he was working on, a fighting style that blended fists with fire. The white mana coursed along his body, almost a mockery of the black disease that had stricken his sister.

"I don't know how he does it." Rafa said, staring at her hands. "He fights so hard, and yet he knows it is so futile…" Agrias heard the pain in Rafa's voice, almost hidden behind her concern for her brother.

"Rafa, you need to take this strength from him." Agrias thought of Mustadio, and of his many frustrations trying to revive the things of old. She remembered how he looked at her, his face contorted in frustration, covered in grease, eyes red from sleepless nights. Watching as it slowly bled away, until he would return to his work with redoubled efforts.

"It's not like that, though." Rafa said quietly, "It used to be that every time one of us got sick, the other was too. He sees this as the two of us growing apart. I don't what will happen to him if I…"

"Don't think like that." Agrias said quickly. "You'll probably outlive him. Men always do something foolish, but we women are smarter than that." Rafa smiled weakly.

"I suppose we are."

Ramza woke early, the morning sun looking down on him. He had had strange dreams, dreams that he had no intention of reliving. Boco was up before him, as per usual, and Ramza grabbed up his pack, which included some food and change of clothes, and, on a sudden whim, pulled it onto his shoulders. He quickly discarded that idea, and attached the pack to Boco, and slid onto the Chocobo in front of the pack. It was slightly uncomfortable, but Boco seemed fine with the added weight, so he set off.

Some time later, his stomach growled, and he cursed. Cooking seemed to be the one skill that had always escaped him. Reaching into his saddle pouch, he scrummed for what scraps might still be edible. A crinkling of paper made his brow furrow, and with some consternation, eventually removed it. 'It' turned out to be the map that Delita had given him. Sighing at his carelessness, he opened the carefully rolled piece of cloth. Something slid out of it, and Ramza nearly fell out of his saddle catching it. It was a reed flute.

_It was in these same plains that Delita and I stopped to watch the sunset. It was amazing, the sun and the endless grass and stone. It was my father that taught us how to make the reed flute. A small twist, a little hole, and how to make it just right_…

Ramza took a moment to play the flute. Delita's flutes were always a higher key than his own.

The rocky field, worn by uncounted feet over thousands of years, stretched for miles. The sky was so clear, he felt as though he could see Gariland from where he sat upon Boco. In the rocks, wild chocobos ran, free of care and worries beyond their own protection. Boco warked, and walked on, his step high despite the load. Ramza rode easily, occasionally closing his eyes to bask in the warm light.

After about an hour, Ramza found the Mandalia road, and travelled along it, somewhat puzzled at the lack of traffic. The road between Igros and Gariland was almost always bustling with merchant trains, eager to make use of the newly constructed path. This suited Ramza fine, and he rode with his hood down, but kept a wary eye all the same.

He had learned to never take advantage of the obvious without being aware of the trap. Gafgarion had taught him that.

_Gafgarion. He was a mercenary with a heart for gold. He taught me many things, first when I served under him, but I learned much more when he betrayed me. Gafgarion had died doing what he loved: Making money. I killed him at Lionel castle, while I was trying to rescue my sister. Could I have saved him from his greed? Did I try?_

Ramza sighed, suddenly, shaking himself from his stupor. He had walked into a poorly conceived trap attempt, laid for an unwary traveller. Albeit, an unwary traveller, even in the best of times, was short-lived.

A pair of rock formations lay ahead, straddling the road. He had already passed the point of no return: A pair of men stepped onto the road behind him, weapons at their sides, and greedy smiles on their faces. Undoubtedly, archers were hidden in the rocks. He would be effectively boxed in, with nowhere to go, and men all around. Ramza paused, and tightened his gloves. Exhaling, he fingered the upper lacings of his shirt regretfully. What he intended would undoubtedly wreck this shirt. Three men stepped out in front of him, large and imposing. Neither appeared intelligent, which meant that the brains behind the operation must be…

"Halt." A voice rose from the top of the rocks on his left. "Treasure your life, or treasure your treasure, you'll end up dead either way." Ramza looked, and saw him, an impressive figure, with the sun directly behind him, his bow outlined in the glow. Ramza dismounted, making sure to keep his sword on.

"Take your weapons off." The man commanded. Ramza obliged, removing the belt, his sword sending up dust from where it landed in the dirt.

"Prefer to die running or standing? It makes no difference where you're going." The ringleader said, tightening the bowstring to full draw. Ramza nodded. He said nothing, sighing as he stepped away from Boco. He searched inside, found the old, familiar energies swelled up within him. Ramza took a deep breath. He found _Hamedo_ in the brink of time. Ramza sprang into action, his stance shifting slightly as the arrow was fired.

The arrow zinged by, burying itself in the dirt. It was followed by another pair of arrows, each carefully avoided, as he felt Hamedo taking over, guiding his feet. Dust kicked up around him as he moved with perfect, controlled speed. He was aware of the arrows, three, as they embedded themselves in the dirt around him.

He was aware of the larger opponents closing in, and reacted.

Exhaling sharply, he struck the ground beneath him. He was sure, that for a split moment in time, they knew what he had done. The earth ruptured out around him, in four directions. The two men behind him were both impaled on sharp outcroppings of rock from below, and the three to the front propelled to either side, impacting the rocks with bone-shattering force.

The rocks to either side received far more permanent damage. Shattering beneath his feet, the leader could only scream as the stone beneath him gave way, and fell to his doom upon the jagged edges below.

Ramza stood, dusting his hands, his breath coming fast, his brow soaked from sweat. It had only taken moments, but the style of a monk was not one to be wielded carelessly— it was taxing.

After a moment, he stooped and gathered his sword, pulling off the tattered remains of his shirt. It was the unfortunate side effect of martial control, that no fabric could really hold itself together while the chakra rushed through the body so actively.

He climbed back on Boco: His loyal chocobo had not strayed a single step. He did not survey the damage he had wrought. He did not even look for survivors. He simply continued on, the bright sun beating down.

When Miya awoke, the sun was shining, and the smell of fire and food set her stomach to growling. She remembered her dire predicament, but that mattered little to her now. She was alive, and she should be dead long before now. She was not in pain, which was another surprise. She pushed herself onto her elbows, and blinked. She had expected to be in an enemy camp, or at least a small village, but instead found herself in some ruined old buildings with… What lay there on the ground astounded her. Weapons and armour, all in serviceable condition, and her left unattended.

She rolled onto her stomach, and pushed herself carefully to her feet. She could still feel the slight tingle that came with magical healing fresh on her leg. She walked slowly, her limbs stiff from an uncomfortable journey. She scooped up a straight-edged sword, of good quality that had a well used leather grip, and a dagger went into her boot. She knew that she should explore the area, run, anything, but she followed her nose to the fire, and the food. There sat the king, his back to her, crouched next to the fire. He turned to her, a stick in one hand, and some unknown meat over the fire on a crude spit.

"Food?" He offered, and she stared, disbelieving the audacity of this strange man.

"Are you mad?" was all she could get out.

He said nothing, only raising his eyebrows. He turned back to the fire. She stared incredulously for a long moment her jaw working up and down, and then he turned back to her, sizzling meat held out to her. She stepped forward cautiously, and impaled it on her sword, and moved slowly to the other side of the fire. Delita simply looked at her as she sat. His eyes were a piercing blue, but the colour seemed dampened, hardened by a darkness within him. She bit into her meat to hide her studying of him, and almost sighed contentedly before she caught herself. They ate in silence for almost an hour, until she filled her belly full to bursting. He must've had a supply, for she saw a goodly amount of meat still to be cooked when they both had finished.

"You must've been hungry." He said. She looked down. Scattered all around her in reckless abandon were various bones, each stripped down to a polish. Her hands were actually dripping juices, and she could only wonder in horror what her face must've been like.

"I've been sailing for the better part of four weeks." She said, using her sleeve to wipe her chin and face. "Food grows scarce on the best of journeys." She cut herself off, gritting her teeth at releasing such valuable information.

"Why did you come here? I presume it was for more than the food, however good it may be." The king asked curiously.

"We are on a sacred mission." She said, lifting her chin, her voice close to echoing in the silence. Delita nodded, and she continued. "Ajora has been reborn, and we are to reclaim our saviour and return her to the Pedestal of God." She proclaimed proudly. Delita nodded slowly, his face betraying nothing but detached interest.

"Ajora… How do you know of her?" He asked suddenly. Miya stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Every soul knows of Ajora! She is God's polar balance, which keeps the waters below the land and her people safe from his wrath!"

"Ajora died here in Ivalice." He said with a frown. "According to the Church, she was burned at the stake for heresy." Miya spluttered in indignation.

"I had heard that the heretics thought that Ajora could be killed, but to hear it with my own ears…" Delita smiled, a dark smile that could not change his cold eyes. Miya found herself staring at those eyes, as one would into a snow storm.

"Ajora fled to Pana'dae with her followers to escape her prosecutors within the Church." Miya coughed suddenly, aghast. She had given away the name of her country, her cause, her history, and received nothing in return! That she could call herself Grand Commodore after this!

"If Ajora fled, the Church must have lied about that too." Miya relaxed again. This King had his doubts about the Church. The fire had burned low, and she poked at the embers with her sword. Clouds were beginning to build in the sky above, and a chill wind almost blew the fire out. Delita nodded, suddenly, some unknown decision made.

"We are in the ruins of a fort of thieves." He said, much to her surprise. "More recently, this is where a heretic lay hidden for many years. These weapons are his." He added. She cocked her head to one side.

"How did a… heretic amass such an armoury?" Delita smiled.

"I will tell you that some other time." He stood, and Miya saw that he was unarmed. "Maybe they'll make a legend of it someday." He stuck out his hand to help her up. She sat there, her sword in one hand, her mind racing. Surely she could not pass up an opportunity such as this, and yet.

Miya blinked. She had already taken his hand, and they were walking in silence, her sword stuck in her sheath. What was this man doing to her?

The docks at Gariland were new, a sign of the rapid expansion that was sweeping through the city. Large vessels were now treading the seas to the southernmost tip of Ivalice, bringing up grand new technologies found within Goug Machine City. Ramza felt out of place among the massive vessels and seemingly more massive dockhands. He dismounted Boco, who warked gratefully, and set about finding the ship Delita had set aside for him. He walked his chocobo slowly, hoping that somehow, this ship would find him. He continued along the artificial shoreline, as the ships became smaller, the air smellier. Ramza clutched his cloak, and was grateful that here, having a hood in broad daylight was not out of the ordinary. He had just decided to turn back and scan the docks again when a hand clapped him on the shoulder. Ramza smoothly brushed it off, pivoted on his heel, and took a step back onto a puddle of water. His attacker raised a hand, but Ramza did not give him time to shout. He pulled his hand up in and threw a swift swooping punch that fell well short of his target.

For a split moment, Ramza saw relief flash across worried eyes, then alarm, as Ramza dried the ground under his boots, the water coursing through him, and exiting as a strong orb, striking the target in the chest, knocking his assailant flat. A high-pitched squeak made him start.

"Alma?"

She scrambled to her feet, shaking out her soaking dress, and Ramza took an involuntary step back. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question, Ramza Beoulve!" She hissed, advancing. Ramza retreated further still.

"You said that you would not be leaving for another two days! Why are you sneaking out on your friends? Don't walk away!" She screeched at him, as he turned. She caught his arm firmly, and spun him around.

"Why won't you tell me what's going on, Ramza? Why won't you e-" She squeaked as he caught her up in a one armed embrace.

"Alma." He said quietly. "You can't know… for both of our sakes. Trust me, please." She was silent for a moment, but then Ramza felt her shiver. Soon, she shook under his arm, muffled sobs coming between words.

"Ramza... I need you to do more than trust me." She said, looking up into his eyes. "I need you to rely on me. I need you to need me too!" He voice was so earnest, that Ramza bowed his head for a moment.

"Alma… I can barely sleep anymore. I can barely feel anymore. I can't rely on you in case I hurt you… If that happens…" His voice broke and he stood in silence for a moment.

"You're… afraid, aren't you?" Alma said in whispered tones. "You are afraid that if something happened to me, you'll become like him. Like Delita." At the mention of Delita's name, Ramza's grip tightened on his sister. "Agrias told me. She said, that's why you're always protecting me."

"Alma…" was all he could get out. They stood there; holding each other in the docks, until Boco tried to wander off is search of ghysal greens. Ramza unhooked his pack from the bird's back, and handed Boco's reins to Alma.

"Take good care of him, Alma." He said gruffly.

"Take care of yourself Ramza." Her eyes watered, and she turned away. He stared after her as she left, unable to tear his eyes away.

"What a sorry sight." Came a voice from behind him. Ramza turned, and nearly went for his sword. The man in front of him was tall, wide, and not at all handsome. A scar across his cheek was the most prominent feature, and headband poorly concealing a receding hairline finished the image.

"So you are the Ramza Beoulve destined to save us all, eh?"

Ramza blinked, surprised enough that he left his sword at his hip.

"You are..?" He asked at last. The man grinned broadly, displaying teeth that did not merit the effort.

"I am Cid!" He said with a flourish. "Captain of the _Highwind_, ready to take you where you need to be!" He chuckled, and grabbed at Ramza's pack. Ramza watched curiously as Cid waved him off, and heaved it onto his back.

"What do you have in this thing?" He gasped. "An army?" Ramza chuckled dryly.

"Less the soldiers." Ramza had worried when he saw Cid, about the quality of his ship. He was justified.

"You call this the _Highwind_?" He groaned. A small vessel, it sat in the water like a washtub. Ramza's preconceived notions of a sleek, streamlined vessel were disappearing every time he looked at it. Two sails were angled out from the center of the ship, and supported by massive timbers that were built into the sides. The whole thing looked like a nightmare, and Ramza watched as Cid deposited Ramza's gear with a thump that seemed to rock the small craft, and then leapt back onto the docks with agility that seemed impossible of a man of his stature.

"She may be ungainly now, but when she hits the winds, she'll soar right enough. You haven't thought, slept, or loved till you've tried it aboard the _Highwind, _m'boy." Ramza smiled against his better judgement, but this man was a curiosity of curiosities.

"I thought this was supposed to hold room for twelve?" He said, starting dubiously at the craft.

"You didn't need twelve, did you?" Cid said mysteriously, with a wink. "You'd best get on board, we leave for Goug as soon as you're able."

"Goug? But we aren't heading there." Cid grinned knowingly.

"You've a lot to learn about sailing, mate."

The prison was spacious. No walls, no guards, tools of escape readily at hand. But Miya felt as trapped as she ever had. By sorcery or some other means, she was held to this place by this King, this Delita Hyral.

It was her third day here, and he had not spoken to her once about returning to his troops, about leading the fight. Likewise, she had not spoken of doing the same.

She could not understand the maelstrom of indecision that was wracking her brain. She had been raised to Grand Commodore through assertive moves, no doubt, no second thoughts; just clean sweeping tactics that kept her opponents off balance. But here, it was as if all that had never been.

She had considered killing him, or at least attacking him: She was unsure if this man could ever be surprised: she had been unable in her last attempts to even faze the man.

Her time here was not entirely wasted, however. He had spoken at great length of his life as a commoner, and how he had been raised to kingship. She had even seen his bitterness when he spoke of his sister Teta, now passed, or missing. He had never specified. That had come as a shock, to see him speak of something so close to him to an enemy. Which raised the question of whether he even thought she was one? Shaking her head to clear it, she attempted to put him out of her mind. She failed.

Sighing, she turned back to the camp. Delita would be serving lunch, and she would not want him to be concerned. That thought sent ripples through her mind, and with it came a shocking revelation…

"Dammit!" Malak shouted, banging his fist on the door to the Hokuten Headquarters of Gariland Magic City.

"Why won't you answer me?" the door opened suddenly, and Malak nearly fell inside.

"We are in a state of war." Said a scribe, his voice nasal and whining. "If you want to help, join the Hokuten Knights." Malak slipped past the scribe, who gibbered at him about procedure, and hurried inside. He saw maps scattered across tables, and three highly decorated men standing over them.

"I'm sorry sirs." Said the scribe, grabbing Malak's arm. "I'll have him out of here in just one moment." He pulled on the arm, while Malak, not sliding an inch, stepped forward.

"I want to help." He said, dragging the scribe, still pulling futilely, and stared into the eyes of the three men, who appeared slightly amused by the whole escapade.

"What would you like?" One said, a small grin playing across his face. "Five men? A hundred? What scheme do you have that we can satisfy?" Malak's eyes glittered in the dim light.

"How many do you have?" A silence followed.

"Get him out." One said to the other two, quietly. The one on the right waved him down, and leaned forward.

"Where would you go to meet your enemy?" His face was curious, careful and calculating. Clearly, a man who considered all his options before discarding them, and exactly what Malak needed. He shook off the scribe, and stabbed a finger down at the map.

"Mandalia Plains." A chuckle echoed out from the three.

"Wrong answer. We lose our fortification, and provide them with a situation where numbers win the war." Malak shook his head.

"Listen and learn."

Goug Machine City was a city of wonder. Ramza had spent a great deal of time here, under the covert protection of Bustradio Bununza, Governor of Goug. It was a site unlike any other, the first city to declare independence from any kingdom allegiances since before the Lion War. It was also the only city to have done so successfully since.

_I remember my first time here. It had seemed to be nothing more than windmills and mines, just like a thousand cities before. I had gone there in search of a princess. I found little more than another trap, another meaningless loss of life… _

A city of wonders, Goug produced all advanced technology for all of Ivalice, and it was this technology that granted it the massive income that sustained their heavy imports. The walls of the city were low, but the city was very well protected.

The _Highwind _closed in on the city like an ant to a mountain, utterly unseen among the massive ships that spread along the coast. Cid piloted skilfully, for indeed he had to, or smash his small craft into pieces against its larger counterparts, who would scarcely notice their passing. Their arrival went unnoticed, but Ramza saw strange lifting mechanisms carrying huge amounts of cargo deeper into the city. Some of these machines looked as though they could pick up the _Highwind_ and place her onto the shore.

They drifted through the massive dock system, deeper into the city—it permitted large vessels only so far, so the _Highwind_ was able to penetrate deep into the city, following small channels and rivers that flowed through the island city. Cid handled the awkward craft skilfully, but Ramza still found himself gripping the sides to keep his feet.

It wasn't until the ship was completely eclipsed from the sun that Ramza realized just how far they had gone. The massive, impressive Goug Machine Works towered over them, blocking the sun.

"How did we. . ?" Ramza asked, turning to look at Cid, incredulous.

Cid gave a smile.

"Did you really think a ship like _this _could cross an ocean, boy? Grab your things, we're changing over into the real _Highwind_ now." Ramza nodded, but did not move. The massive wall—or, what he had _thought_ was a wall, was opening, showing a tiny harbour within the Machine Works itself. Inside, Ramza saw a face he had not expected.

"Mustadio?"

Standing with her back to the fire, Miya stared at the night sky, enjoying the familiar constellations that reminded her of home. Delita was lying on his back, a piece of grass stuck in his mouth in a way that was most unlike a king, seemingly lost in thought. She stole a quick glance at the man, his red hair still not greying, his skin smooth if not unscarred. His eyes were softer now, but that only made his sadness all the more apparent. She wondered, absently, what his face would look like, without that sadness being there. Without the coldness that numbed his joys.

She looked back at the stars, and saw the Seven-Fingered Hand spreading its fingers wide. A time of discord and turmoil was ahead. She grimaced, and searched for a better sign. The Halo of the Moon was only half visible, bringing bitterness; the Sword of Judgement was pointing down, a time of guilt and regret; The Rope of Ajora was missing three links, calling for internal conflicts. She glanced at Delita again, and sighed. Strangely enough, when he looked at her, he had a bemused smile on his face, like he had seen something she had missed…

Agrias was stalking back and forth in the small ward, while Rafa sat with her head back into her pillows. It was dark out, and the stars were shining faintly over the city. Gritting her teeth, Agrias whirled to the door at the sound of knocking.

"Rafa?" Came a voice.

"Come in, brother." Rafa said with a faint sigh of relief. The door opened to Malak's figure, his hair mussed and his face smeared with black. His eyes, however, showed no signs of fatigue. Instead, they shone with a vigour that Agrias had not seen in years.

"Where were you?" Came Rafa's voice from the bed.

"I was at the Gariland Headquarters." Malak said with a triumphant grin. "We'll be moving out in the morning." Agrias chuckled.

"The Hokuten must be in really bad shape, to accept advice from the likes of you." Malak sneered at her.

"I learned from the best, and now, I am the best."

Agrias gave him a frosty glare.

"I think that attitude had better be the first thing to die on the battlefield, or it will be followed quickly by-"

"Agrias, stop." Rafa said pointedly. "Do you have to go, Malak? I would like you here, with me."

"Rafa, I can't help you here. At least out there, I can protect you."

"I don't think you understand." Said Agrias under her breath, but Malak ignored her.

"Goodbye, Rafa. I'll be back when I can." With that, he turned and strode out the door. After a moment, Agrias kicked the door shut, watching it splinter at the hinges.

"Why doesn't anyone listen anymore?" She screamed at the top of her lungs. Rafa stood slowly, her blackened veins standing out against her pearlescent skin, where it visible from beneath her clean white linens. She walked slowly over to the window.

"Look, Agrias." She said warmly. "Look at the stars." Agrias stopped her physical rant against the furniture, and stepped over to the window, looking at the stars.

"Do you believe in the stars?" Agrias asked, sceptically. She never understood the fascination people seemed to have with them.

"I do. See there?" She said, pointing to the heavens. "The Zodiacs." She traced figures in the sky, mapping out the twelve sigils against the inky blackness. "They form a circle." She said after a moment. Then she laughed lightly, almost a giggle. "Love is in the air."

Agrias nodded.

"I've heard of that one."

"Look over there. Is that what I think it is?" She pointed, and Agrias stared at the collection of stars. "Ooh, the grand lover is so clear." Her delight was evident. "Someone is finding beauty and peace in a strange place."

"Whatever." Agrias sighed, shaking her head. "Just wish it were me."

A bird wheeled high over Ivalice. Had it been concerned with the affairs of men, it would have seen a long line of ships stretching from far to the south, connecting to the mainland. There, spreading like a massive infestation of black ants, were soldiers celebrating victory at Igros Castle. These ants had secured the eastern coast, and were spreading west. But the bird was not concerned with the affairs of men.

It spiralled on warm air, getting higher and higher, until it finally dove from the sky, and missed a pigeon by a hairsbreadth. The bird squawked angrily, and circled around for another pass. Some things just needed time.

Mustadio smiled warmly, standing at the edge of the dock.

"Ramza!" He called, his Goug accent coming through slightly, as it always did when he was excited. "It's been too long!"

Ramza's head was spinning. "What are you doing here?" He called, still trying to figure everything out.

Cid roared with laughter, bringing the ship up to the docks. With a rumble, the giant stone doors closed behind them.

"Oy, Musty! Tie her down!" Cid called, and, to Ramza's further surprise, Mustadio caught the proffered line, and began to tie the ship in.

"Musty?" Ramza said incredulously, "What in God's name is going on here?"

"Why haven't you gone back?" Miya asked, as Delita reclined against a wall that was covered in moss. The sun was bright, and it splashed against his face, illuminating the golden highlights in his red hair. He had both hands behind his head, a small smile playing across his face that seemed off when paired with his cold, unfeeling eyes.

"Ivalice be damned." He said, after a moment, his eyes closing. "I'm sick of that place. Everywhere I go, it's just more problems I can't seem to fix. Sometimes, I think back, and I don't even remember why I became king."

Miya frowned.

"If you're king, why don't you change it?" Delita sighed, and rose to his feet, and stepped over to the river, and stared into its crystal flow. "I am. If the infighting doesn't stop, then it deserves what it gets. Either way, I'm finished being king."

"King yes. Ruler? Leader? No. You'll never get out of yourself." Delita shot her a scathing glance, and Miya started, surprised that she had hit a nerve. His eyes, usually cold and distant, were now blazing with fury.

"Don't ever say that!" He growled through gritted teeth. His fists were balled tightly, trembling slightly. She clenched her teeth, and stared at him, defiantly. He glared back, and then smashed his hand against the wall behind him, hard enough that she could hear cracking sounds from the rotting stones.

"Why am I stuck like this, hmm?" He asked her, his heat replaced with icy coolness, his voice sharp. "Why can't I change?"

"A person cannot change." Miya recited by rote, remembering her youth. "Only remember a better person that they were. When were you a good person?" Delita laughed, his humourless voice raising goosebumps on Miya's skin, and she wrapped her arms around herself, peering at him curiously.

"When I was being used." He said, after a moment, sighing. "Back when I was being manipulated, and when I was nobody. Then, I was good. I was a good pawn. A good little commoner boy who did as he was told." He laughed again, this time filled with hurt and bitterness. "Now, I'm not being used. I'm using everybody else, in fact. Yet, I am no better than I was. It makes me wonder…" He trailed off, growing distant once more. But, she heard him whisper under his breath.

"Ramza…"

It was not quite what he had expected. Mustadio and himself, were sitting in the Machine works, sipping on tea, while Cid was in the other room, examining the real _Highwind_.

"Cid is an Engineer, like myself." Mustadio said, grinning. "He's been working with me, on and off, to rebuild an old airship he found." Ramza shook his head.

"Why can't we just. . . sail there?" He asked.

"Well, these invaders came by sea— avoiding their ships would be time consuming, not to mention dangerous. So, Delita has, through Cid, donated a lot of cash into making this project run. He's been good to us."

"Sit down and drink yer goddamn tea!" Cid roared from the other room. "That son of a bitch knew that we'd have to help him the first goddamn minute! He used me, the son of a bitch!"

Mustadio roared with laughter. "Cid and my father never got along— So, I've been helping Cid get what he needs." Cid walked back in from the other room- he was liberally coated with grease, but his grin was ear to ear.

"You've done good work, boy. It'll fly."

"Wait." Ramza cut in, "It's never _flown_ before?"

"Ahh, sit down and drink yer goddamn tea!" Cid said, with a laugh, "It'll fly fine. Could circle the world, I'll bet."

"You ready, Ramza? It's better if we launch now, before it gets too dark." Ramza nodded dumbly.

_I thought the world is square. . ?_

A man struggled to his feet, the sun beating down on his face, harsh and cruel. The grass he had crushed with his unconscious form lay red, as did all the ground and stone that littered the Mandalia plains. He had been a Hokuten knight, until now. His arm dangled at his side, useless, and he felt a deep throbbing in his leg. But the scars on his mind were far more pressing. A young man, little more than a boy, glowing white lines tracing his body, as he advanced into the enemy lines: Lethal strikes combined with a massive magical discharge flattened enemy ranks, broke holes in experienced lines, and shattered charges. It had been as close to a massacre as a loss could be, for indeed, wherever he was not, the battle was lost.

They had pressed the enemy back, killed more than they lost, but the knights had lost far too many. But that man was all that was on his mind. The soldier limped back towards Gariland, staring out at the devastated plains of Mandalia. Once, there had been life here. But now, death ruled the day. He would make it back, but he would no longer be a soldier. He had died there too.

"What do you mean, lost?" Malak ranted, slamming a hand down onto the table, scattering maps.

"I mean we lost, boy! War is about losing, it's always been about losing!!!" General Tragard shouted back, his anger clearly etched onto his face. "It was a good plan, but they took it one step further than we did. They have too many troops! We cannot afford to meet them in the field any longer. We have sent word to Lionel and they are massing an army-"

"What makes you believe that Lionel will have enough troops?" Malak cut him off, his voice suddenly low and venomous. "Or Gallione? Or Zeltennia? What if all of Ivalice can barely match a fraction of their numbers, eh? What happens then?"

"Then we will fight battles that we do not lose."

"And I say that battle was not lost. Give me another five hundred thousand, and we will-"

"Five hundred thousand? After returning with half of your four hundred, you think that we can muster that many? We no longer have time for your mistakes!"

"That's enough, Tragard." General Mynnerd, a skinny man whose face was scarred, but had large, unassuming eyes.

"The boy proved himself. That is enough, Tragard." He repeated. Although Tragard was of equal rank, and little over twice his girth, Tragard turned away from Malak.

"At this point, we must reach a compromise." Added Lord Commander Vandes. A noble, Vandes was by no means soft. Only a few years older that Malak, he had an air of regal authority that matched that of any king before him, Vandes was educated in the ways of war by his father, the previous Lord Commander, Lord Validus. "General Tragard has made his point that we can no longer afford any mistakes. Alternately, Malak, you have made the point that we cannot simply remain on the defensive, and that losses are guaranteed either way." He paused to let his words sink in. "Now, as Lord Commander, I do neither outrank you, nor demand your ears. But we must be unified at this time. We have lost two hundred thousand men. That is significant. But we returned with that many, and have another two hundred ready. Gariland's defences are weak at the moment. The rapid expansion of our city has limited the effectiveness of our walls. I believe that Malak's efforts have forced our enemy to step back and regroup, which gives us time to fortify." There were murmurs of agreement within the crowded room. "Furthermore, the battle has all but destroyed the roads. That will hinder our enemy even further. General Mynnerd!" He called, the skinny man stepped forward. "You oversee the fortifying. General Tragard— see to the training of the new recruits, and care of the injured. Hmmm…" He paused as his eyes passed over Malak, who was still seething. "You will need a title." He said suddenly. Malak sighed disgustedly.

"I don't want it. Call me when the fighting starts, I won't be very far."

Agrias stared at the doctor, her mind numb.

"What's going on with Rafa?" She asked, as the doctor quailed under her eyes.

"Rafa, " He gulped, and started again, "Rafa has had a sort of collapse. Her… markings have become more widespread, tracing not only her major arteries, but now most of the smaller vessels as well. She is awake, however, and in less pain than before. Unfortunately, she seems to be slightly… unstable now." Agrias clenched her fist, and the doctor flinched. "She is becoming more… calm. It's the strangest thing." He said, as she stepped past the doctor, and into Rafa's room. Agrias almost did not recognize the girl beneath the black tracings that scoured her body. They even seemed to stand out through her white robe. Rafa nodded amiably to her before turning back to the window. It was unusually chilled for a summer night, but Agrias found the breeze to be refreshing.

"How are you feeling, Rafa?" Agrias asked, almost timidly.

"Fine." She answered, without looking away. "Malak is out there somewhere, but I don't even know where." She turned to her, and Agrias saw something in her eyes; barely a flicker, possibly imagined. "But it's hard to keep worrying, you know?" Agrias nodded knowingly, thinking back to all the sleepless nights she'd worried about Mustadio, only to find out he'd stayed out to work on some invention or another. Worrying was hard. But something in how she had said it seemed… _off_, somehow. Agrias looked away, unnerved by Rafa's steady gaze. Her eyes fell on a small vase of flowers, which were beginning to whither.

"Rafa?" She said questioningly, pointing. Rafa was never one to let something die when she had something to say about it.

"Agrias, don't you ever think… that it's just going to die anyway?" Agrias said nothing, pulling the flowers out, and emptying the vase. "I mean," She continued, "why worry about it? Why care about something that will just die anyway?"

"Rafa, that's enough." She said quietly. Agrias did not like the depressing mood Rafa was in, even if Rafa seemed calm and content. "Of course they're worth it. You know that." Rafa turned away, and stared back out the window.

"I've heard rumors. They say that during that battle, we lost a hundred thousand men. Are they… worth it?" Agrias almost choked. A quick retort died on her lips, as she stared at the withering flowers in her hands. "The soldiers… they're dead. The flowers… they're dying." Rafa continued. "What value is there in something dying, if there is none in something dead?"

"Because." Agrias answered softly, her eyes adding a pair of drops to the water she was pouring into the vase, "Because they aren't dead yet."


End file.
